


Caché

by jamlockk



Series: All the ways we love [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballet, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, M/M, ballet!lock, balletlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 14:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4964032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick ballet!lock short</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caché

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to make a series of my ficlets so here's one I posted on tumblr earlier (rustles sticky back plastic)

John found them stuffed in a box under the bed. He'd been sorting the laundry; picking up Sherlock's discarded trousers and Sherlock's wedding ring had dropped out of the pocket and rolled under the bed. Scrabbling around to reach the silver band, John's fingers grazed something smooth and wooden. Setting Sherlock's ring aside on the bedside table, John carefully stretched his arm towards the thing, pushed right back at the head of the bed. He grasped and pulled it from its dusty hiding place; a small box. The caramel surface of the shined wood of the box gleamed as John gently brushed away the dust. He got off the floor and sat on the bed, curiosity triumphing over concern for privacy. He carefully opened the box and peeked at the contents. 

Inside were a short length of white ribbon, frayed and torn at the ends as if it had been ripped at the seams from something. A clean square of bandage, something you'd use to cover a small wound, like a blister perhaps. Tucked beneath these was a piece of paper, wrapped around something like documents, folded in half and faded with age. John pried the bundle free and unfurled the edges. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat, a wave of tenderness for his beloved husband washing through him like a tide. 

They weren't documents but photographs. Two still images capturing a much younger Sherlock, dressed only in black leggings, creating the most beautiful lines and shapes with his body as John had ever seen. 

Ballet wasn't something John had a whole lot of knowledge about but even to his untrained, philistine eye he could see the strength and grace in Sherlock's poses. The first photo was Sherlock at the barre, leg raised away from his body, hand resting lightly on the barre as he balanced. His face was soft but focused, concentrating but delighted. The expression was one John had only seen him wear occasionally when they were in bed together, their caresses slow and gentle, kisses unhurried and deep. 

The second photo made John's eyes hot and prickly as he gazed at the moment frozen in time by the camera's shutter. Sherlock was mid-leap, one leg thrown high behind him, the other drawing an elegant line to the floor. His arms were extended above him, fingers seeming to reach out to touch the sky itself. His head was tipped back, eyes closed, that sensual mouth John knew so well shaped in an "o" of pure pleasure, lost in the sensation of the dance. 

He looked so vulnerable and lost, but at the same time John couldn't draw his eyes away from the sheer joy and happiness shown in the photo. Brushing his damp eyes, John cradled the picture in his hands, wondering where that joy had gone for the young Sherlock he never known back then. What had happened between this picture and the Sherlock John had met at Barts all those years ago? 

"Many things," Sherlock murmured from the bedroom doorway. John startled and opened his mouth to apologise for the invasion of his husband's privacy, but Sherlock gave a crooked smile and crossed to sit beside him on the bed. He reached out for the box, fingertips just stroking the surface before dropping back into his lap. 

"Many things happened, John. Some of them a bit not good. I remember when this was taken, it was just before I was sent to university. I gave up ballet there, having found other ways to distract my mind." 

His tone wasn't sad but John could hear the loneliness and longing hiding there. 

"It was a way of finding quiet," Sherlock says softly. "A way to express things that I couldn't bring myself to, or refused to put into words." 

"And now?" John asked. 

Sherlock smiled. "Now I can find the quiet and the words without my ballet slippers," he said. He leaned in and John pressed a kiss to his head, heart swelling with love. 

Sherlock picked up the ribbon, smoothing it between his fingers. Then he took the photographs, folded them into the paper again and put everything back into the box, closing the lid with a quiet click. 

John took Sherlock's hands in his and together they gently pushed the box back under the bed. 

It's still there, the beauty contained within hidden away safely, but where John knows he will always find it.


End file.
